


Retribution

by ElleCC



Category: Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: AU, F/M, Minor Character Death, Pre-Relationship, mafia, no vampires here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-23
Updated: 2012-06-23
Packaged: 2017-11-08 09:17:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/441631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElleCC/pseuds/ElleCC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an important witness is killed and an investigation nearly compromised, Detective Jasper Whitlock feels responsible. Will finding the Volturi family's next target before they do help him atone for what he did?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retribution

**Author's Note:**

> Legna suggested the title and betaed; LaViePastiche helped me brainstorm. Originally posted as part of my first Twilight 25, 09/08/2009.

I had failed.

Irrevocably.

My failure was etched on Peter's face, and I wondered in a moment of contemplation if the change to his features would be permanent.

It had been my detour, my mistaken intuition, which had taken us off course on our way to the safe house. My "feeling" about goings-on in the abandoned warehouse in the meatpacking district had been wrong. The entire block had been silent and dark. We hadn't seen so much as a rat, but I still made Peter prowl around with me for ten minutes while I tried to quell the twinge in my gut.

We made it to the safe house thirty minutes later than promised and, by the look of things, fifteen minutes too late to stop the steadily growing pool of blood under Charlotte's body from starting.

Charlotte had started as a witness, a sudden breakthrough for our RICO case against the Volturi family. She had walked into the station on a weekday morning in the spring, and Peter and I had been there to catch her quietly given statement. Unfortunately, the  _comare_ of one of the most influential of the Volturi bosses was the first woman Peter had seriously looked at in years.

She had come to us because she wanted out. She was sick of the life she'd been leading for the past three years. She was sick of being quiet, of pretending she didn't hear the phone calls and the whispered conversations, didn't see the money changing hands or the silent yet loaded stares. She had heard enough to do damage to the family and too much to be safe.

Initially, she had refused our help. She had unloaded what she knew, promised to check back in every week, but wouldn't wear a wire or accept official protection. During ten weeks of check-ins, many over coffee at a rundown diner fifteen blocks from the station, she and Peter had grown close. He promised it wasn't affecting his objectivity about her case, and I believed him; it didn't hurt that he was happier than he'd been since the mess with his ex-wife had ended five years ago. I wasn't going to stir the pot if I didn't have to.

Things had come to a head for Charlotte the second week in June when one of Caius Volturi's soldiers had seen her leaving the precinct.

She'd withstood Caius' questioning, swearing she was only at the station to report a stolen credit card for her sister, and had called Peter from a payphone in Upstate hours later, after having escaped from a bathroom in a house Caius owned out in West Hempstead.

We'd taken her immediately into protective custody and put her in a safe house in Westchester. Two weeks later, when Peter was afraid her location had been compromised, she was moved. Eight days after that, she was moved again. The day we arrived at the safe house too late was her third there.

The Volturis were persistent assholes, which unfortunately included being persistently enigmatic—part of the reason why Charlotte had been such a break in our case. Regardless of all of our suspicions about the family's activities, we had very little evidence and no one willing to speak against them. Until Charlotte.

As I watched Peter, hunched over Charlotte's body, his form as still as hers, I quietly catalogued all of the ways my failure would devastate our case, not the least of which was the mental trauma that had been done to my partner.

I had failed. Irrevocably.

We had radioed in a 10-13 as soon as we saw the broken window on the side of the house and couldn't raise Carlson on his radio. We found him in the front hall, beyond help, and Charlotte in the kitchen. As soon as we'd ascertained that Charlotte hadn't made it—I hoped Peter wasn't focusing on the three dark holes in her back—I left him to his grief. He would have done the same for me.

I wandered to Charlotte's bedroom. She'd only been there for three days, but my experience with women was that they nested wide and fast, and Charlotte's room didn't disappoint. She had two framed photos next to her bed, and I wasn't surprised to see that one was of her and Peter on the Staten Island Ferry. When had they taken that? The second was of her with a brunette who looked about her age—mid-twenties or so. I removed the back of the frame and slipped out the photograph.

The photo appeared to have been taken at a large gathering of some sort. I could make out seven tables with fancy flower centerpieces in the background. The tablecloths were red. The two girls were dressed in fancy gowns—off the shoulder numbers. Was it a Volturi event? If it was, how it was that Caius Volturi's  _comare_  was in attendance? She hadn't mentioned anything to us about attending family gatherings. I didn't recognize the brunette.

I squinted at the photo and realized that it had either been cropped or taken only to include the girls. There was a hand on the brunette's shoulder, although the edge of the photo cut off the person to whom it belonged. The hand was big, and I could just see a large ring on the index finger. A large, gold ring with a very distinct "V" in the middle.

Definitely a Volturi function, then.

Was the girl another mistress or a Volturi family member with whom I wasn't familiar? I flipped the photo over.

_Charlotte & Isabella  
Christmas '08_

Isabella.

Given Charlotte's current situation, I was immediately worried about Isabella.

I pocketed the photo of the girls. After a moment of thought, I took the one of Peter and Charlotte, as well. It wouldn't do if someone saw it—detective / witness relationships were generally not well received—and he might not have a copy of his own. I did a quick sweep of the rest of the room but didn't find anything else of interest.

I heard our reinforcements storming the house as I made my way through the other rooms. I looked for something, anything, that would link us back to whoever had done this. I searched for any way to make up for what I had done, what I had cost us—what I had cost Peter. There was nothing. No sign of forced entry, no sign of other visitors, just... nothing.

"Whitlock!"

I dropped my sweep and made my way toward Peter's voice. He was in the kitchen, stoically supervising the examination of Charlotte's body. I wanted to tell him to go wait in the car or finish the search of the house, but I knew he wouldn't leave her side. He looked at me for a long moment before turning his stare back to the coroner hovering above her head. For the first time in years, I couldn't read my partner's eyes, and an uneasy tightness gripped my chest.

I wondered how long it would take him to come back from this.

With our only Volturi witness compromised, our case against the family was put on the backburner. Our lieutenant was concerned that Charlotte's recorded and sworn testimonies wouldn't be enough to prosecute. Without a living eyewitness feeding us information, basically, we were fucked.

I showed Peter the photograph of the two girls. He didn't recognize the brunette and said Charlotte hadn't spoken about anyone named Isabella. She had apparently been very tight-lipped about "family business" when she was with Peter and he was off the clock, something we could understand. Peter represented a fresh start for her. She wouldn't want to taint it with the sins in her past. And if Isabella was a good friend, Charlotte might not want to drag her into official testimony.

I sat at my desk the Wednesday after Charlotte's death, studying the photo. I hadn't been able to determine anything else about the location. I'd even had one of the forensic nerds give it a once over, but he hadn't turned up anything in the five minutes I was willing to part with the print. I'd propped the photo against the bottom of my monitor so I could study it in the moments my eyes weren't focused on the busywork I had to fill out for another case. Peter was usually in charge of our paperwork, but he'd been unsurprisingly withdrawn since the funeral, and I wasn't pushing it.

Isabella.

I was concerned that if she and Charlotte had been close, they might go after her next. Had Charlotte told Isabella what she had done? Did she know about Peter? Or had she kept her two lives separate? For the photo to be next to her bed, this Isabella had to be someone special to Charlotte. Would she be willing to talk, as Charlotte had done? Or would she now be too afraid after what had happened to her friend? I wouldn't blame her if she were.

I tried to focus on the case report, which was due at noon, but the large eyes in the photo kept drawing me back to them. Both her brown eyes and hair shimmered in the light at the event. Her smile was warm and wide. Whatever she was to the Volturis, she had been enjoying herself. But then again, Charlotte looked happy as well, and it had only been a few months after the photograph was taken that she had slipped through the front door of our stationhouse and silently cried through an interview.

Finally giving up on the report, I pushed away the keyboard and picked up the photo. I had made half-a-dozen quiet phone calls in the past few days, trying to turn up her identity and location. No one seemed to know who she was. It could be that she was new to the family and this had been her first party. Or maybe was already old news, cast aside. If that were the case... would that make her more or less of a target for the men who had taken out Carlson and Charlotte?

I had one more contact to try and no one was getting any younger.

The phone rang twice before someone picked up.

"Eli, it's Jasper Whitlock."

" _Detective Whitlock, to what do I owe this pleasure?"_

"I'm looking for a girl, possibly involved with Aro or Marcus Volturi..." I clicked on a file on my desktop and pulled up Charlotte's stats. Based on the photograph, they were of similar stature. "Probably 5'3 or 5'4, 120 pounds, long brown hair, brown eyes. We think she ran with Caius' girlfriend _._ Isabella, no last name."

" _Ah, poor Charlotte. Isabella..."_  He was quiet for a moment and I waited.  _"I think you might be looking for Isabella Swan, Marcus' girl. She's new. I don't have much information."_

I quickly jotted down what little information Eli had before he reminded me that I now owed him. I hung up and leaned back in my chair to think.

Isabella Swan.

Marcus Volturi.

How had a pretty, innocent-looking girl like her gotten mixed up with a guy like him, a family like that? While Caius was known to be the most ruthless of the brothers, something I worried would translate into Isabella's death, Marcus was more mysterious. Rarely seen in public, rarely known to speak, very little was known about his involvement with the family business. He had lost his wife a few years ago in what was thought to be a hit gone bad. Was Isabella to be the next Mrs. Marcus Volturi?

I found that idea did not sit well with me at all.

Wednesday night, I couldn't sleep. I had told Peter what I'd learned from Eli, and he quietly noted that he hoped she was happy with the Volturis and stayed far away from us.

The dull ache that had settled into my body since Charlotte's death throbbed at the dead look in Peter's eyes. I been encouraging him to take some time off, even if he lied to the lieutenant about why he needed it, but he refused and I knew he would keep refusing. It was likely for the best. With no one at home to distract him, and virtually no family to visit, it was probably better for Peter if he were at work. I would just have to keep my eye on him and make sure the disconcerting quiet that had settled around him didn't eat away until there was nothing left.

I finally grew sick of staring at the dark ceiling and climbed out of bed. I grabbed the photo from my bedside table before making my way to the couch. By the dull glow from the television, I studied Isabella Swan's face. Could she be content with Marcus Volturi? Was she in danger, too?

The one potentially useful piece of information I had received from Eli was that she used to work part-time at a bar downtown. He had it listed as her last known employment but had no idea if she still worked there. Apparently, she had been sucked into Marcus' web of silence.

I was familiar with the bar; it would take me only twenty minutes to get there. But what would I do if she were there? Introduce myself as the shit who got Charlotte killed? Grill her about her involvement with the Volturi family? Ask her if she knew what she was doing with her life, if she knew she was ruining it?

Maybe she was happy, like Peter said. Maybe she was better left alone.

As I pulled on a pair of jeans, I told myself that if Isabella were my daughter or sister or friend, I would want someone like me watching out for her.

I told myself that, but it didn't lessen the guilt.

Thirty minutes later, I was sitting on a stool at the bar. I ordered a beer although I went on shift at noon and I never slept well after drinking, no matter how tired I was.

I tried not to be obvious as I looked around the bar, seeking the girl with the long brown hair. She was nowhere to be seen. I went through two beers waiting for her to appear but knowing my luck would never be good enough to find her on the first try.

At three thirty, as the bartenders were preparing for last call, I took the photo out of my pocket and slid it carefully toward the bartender in front of me. I pointed to Isabella.

"You know her?"

He looked at it a moment and then looked at me. He scanned me slowly and I saw a familiar look in his eyes. It was a cop's look, a reading-the-suspect look, a what-the-fuck-is-this-guy-up-to look. I'd heard a lot about bartenders making good psychologists and had seen it in practice enough to know it was true. This big fuck looked like he'd seen a lot.

He shook his head and pushed the photo back to me without a word. I had the distinct feeling I'd failed whatever test he'd just given me and I struggled to bite back a yell and keep my hands flat on the bar. I'd dealt with enough people—good and bad—to know this guy was lying. I also knew that you rarely got anywhere in this world by losing your temper, even if it felt good at the time.

I nodded and picked up the photo, giving Isabella another look before sliding it back into my pocket. He knew her somehow, even if he wasn't admitting it. I'd learn what I could about him tomorrow, and maybe that information would lead me to her.

I finished my beer in two quick gulps and dropped a few extra dollars worth of tip on the bar as I stood to go.

"Hey." I looked up from my wallet to see the bartender parked in front of me, a wet dishtowel gripped in his massive fist. "We have a pretty good happy hour special on Thursdays. Draught imports for two bucks."

"Yeah, sure, man. Thanks." I started to leave, not wanting to press my luck after he'd dropped this gift in my lap, but turned back before I'd made it a couple of feet. "Maybe I'll see you here..."

"Emmett," he said. His hands were occupied wiping down a glass and he didn't extend one.

I shoved my own hands in my pockets. "Emmett," I repeated. "Jasper. See you around."

I left, then, but not before I caught Emmett giving me another appraising look.

The following day, tired and wired, I told the lieutenant I had some things to take care of and had to drop shift early. Peter and I had clocked more than our fair share of overtime in the last couple of months and she merely waved me on. I told Peter where I was headed, hoping he'd want to join me, but he held up our current case file and begged off.

Emmett was behind the bar when I arrived, and I parked myself on the same stool I'd occupied only fourteen hours earlier. He had a beer in front of me before I could open my mouth.

I refrained from scanning the room as I had done previously. There was a mirror lining the back of the bar, behind the liquor, via which I could see a small sliver of the large space behind me. I kept my eyes trained on that and figured she'd have to walk through my line of vision at some point, if she were working. If.

I still wasn't sure what I would do if I saw her. I was uncomfortable with how unsure I was with the whole situation. My usual MO was to have everything planned, step-by-step, laid out so as to avoid mistakes. I could handle something unexpected as long as there was a larger plan governing the situation, but since the moment of Charlotte's death, I had been off. I couldn't line myself back up with my plan because the plan no longer existed. I couldn't forget that it was a deviation in a standard plan that ultimately led to Charlotte's death, but I couldn't seem to find a way to snap back to whatever path I was supposed to be walking.

I kept my eyes trained on the mirror while I drank my beer and focused part of my brain on figuring out what I would do if I saw her.

Unfortunately, time ran out before I could make any real progress.

I caught her in my periphery first. She was walking through swinging wooden doors that opened onto what looked like a dark way hallway, which presumably led to the kitchen. She had a large tray of plates and baskets balanced on one arm.

The long brown hair, which had been styled and curled in the photograph, was pulled away from her face without care. She wore a simple waitress' outfit—white t-shirt, black jeans, green apron.

I was drawn to her immediately and knew I would have noticed her even if I hadn't been searching every face I passed, for a week, looking for her.

What stood out to me most as she passed by, and I subtly turned my head to follow her, was the look on her face. She didn't seem like the sort of girl who had many worries, but her face was drawn. I could see dark circles under her wide eyes, tight creases at the corners of her mouth. She was surrounded by a cloud of nearly palpable exhaustion and my own peaked as she walked past and I was caught in her wake.

I felt myself start to stand but was stopped by a pressure on my arm. I turned to find Emmett holding my arm to the bar, slowly shaking his head. There was a warning in his eyes.

I sat down abruptly. Was she being watched? Did they know I was a cop? I was suddenly aware that my mere presence was dangerous to Isabella. My guilt flared up and my path seemed even less sure.

"I should go," I muttered, reaching for my wallet.

"It's on the house. And the restrooms are down that way." Emmett jerked his chin toward the doors through which Isabella had emerged. He picked up my half-full glass, clearly agreeing that I should leave.

I glanced at the swinging doors and back to Emmett, but he had already turned away.

I resisted the urge to look for Isabella as I made my way toward the doors and hallway. If Emmett knew she was being watched, would he have suggested I come back to the bar while she was here? Was it just a suspicion? I wondered if he would talk to me if I got him alone.

The small hallway leading to the bathrooms and kitchen was poorly lit. I stood uncertainly in front of the men's room, wondering if Emmett had truly meant for me to enter. I had one hand on the door to push it open when the swinging doors at the end of the short hall flew inward and Isabella barreled through, empty tray tucked under her arm.

She was muttering to herself but quieted and pulled up short when she saw me.

I stilled, then turned slowly toward her. She cast her eyes down and continued walking. It didn't look as if she was going to look at me while she passed, and just as she reached me, I made a decision.

"Isabella."

Her head whipped up at her name and she stopped again.

This close to her, I could see fear in her eyes and instinctively stepped toward her. She immediately tensed and stepped back, bumping into the wall on the other side of the hall. I pressed my back against the wall next to the restroom door. I would fail before I started if she was too frightened to speak with me.

I held my hands near my sides, trying to calm her, but she didn't look any less wary.

"Isabella. I'm Jasper Whitlock." Her eyes grew a little wider and she glanced down the hall toward the bar. "I—"

"You're Peter's friend," she said quietly.

I was shocked she knew my name, particularly since she wasn't familiar to Peter. She and Charlotte must have been as close as I had guessed. I immediately registered that she hadn't mentioned anything about my job—no "You're that cop"—so I wasn't sure yet what she knew about me or about what Charlotte had done. But her glance down the hall had been telling.

"Yes. I needed to see if you were safe." She would either understand what I meant or not.

Another furtive glance stolen toward the doors confirmed Charlotte had spoken to her.

"How did you know about me?"

"Charlotte had a picture of you." My fingers reached to pull it from my pocket but I halted, wondering if it would be too difficult for her to see Charlotte. "I've been looking for you since... last week."  _Since I failed our friends._

She nodded tightly, her eyes scanning my face but never quite meeting my own.

"I would like to talk to you, if I could."

"I don't think that's a good idea," she said quickly. She was practically vibrating with tension, and all I wanted to do was wrap my arms around her and calm her down.

"Isabella, we can help you."

"Like you helped Charlotte?" I was expecting it, but the words were still a knife to my psyche. It was surprisingly worse that her tone held no malice or accusation, only candor.

"We made mistakes with Charlotte."  _I made mistakes with Charlotte_. "They won't happen again. We can keep you safe." I pushed aside the voice in my head that was taunting me with  _You can't promise that_  and  _You're lying_.

"No. I need to get back to work." She inched past me, her back still to the wall, and was out of arm's reach before I could react.

What was that physics thing, the observer effect? How merely observing a situation can influence it? My visit alone to this bar could cause trouble for her. We were already here.

I had to do something.

"Wait." I pulled out my wallet and extracted a business card. I hastily jotted my cell number on the back as I slowly approached her, my eyes flickering between the card and her face, making sure she didn't bolt. I didn't want to cause a scene by following her into the kitchen. "Take this. If you change your mind..." I showed her my handwriting on the back and pushed it into her hand.

She barely glanced at the card before stuffing it into a pocket on her apron. She turned to go, but before she retreated all the way into the kitchen, she looked over her shoulder and finally met my eyes.

The tug in my gut was stronger than anything I'd ever felt before. Stronger than any of my "intuitions." The draw to her was so strong that it physically manifested as I moved toward her. I stopped myself before I'd taken two steps.

"I'm sorry about Charlotte," she whispered before slipping through the door and disappearing from sight.

I couldn't get Isabella's words out of my head. For the next week, they echoed through me while I conducted interviews, while I jogged before work, while I tried without success to fall asleep.

As when she had first mentioned Charlotte, I had detected no accusation in her words, no sarcasm. She really had sounded sorry. Sympathetic.

I didn't deserve her sorrow or her sympathy. I deserved her anger and her shouted words. Her blame.

I kept my phone with me constantly. Even in the bathroom, I perched it on the side of the sink, always ready to shut off the shower if I heard it ring. For the week after I first met Isabella, I spent every moment waiting for her to call, hoping that she'd decide to speak to us, come to us for safety.

But those moments shared time with a desire for her to be happy where she was. Maybe mob boss' wife is what she had always wanted to be. If she were married to Marcus Volturi, she wouldn't have to worry about always being hidden in the wings, as Charlotte had. Isabella would be paraded around in public, legally bound to the family, in an infinitely worse position than Charlotte when it came down to it.

My need for her to seek me out was far greater than my desire for her to be content as she was.

I couldn't get past the look on her face when I'd first seen her. It had been obvious she was troubled. Was she only having a bad day? Maybe she had still been sad about Charlotte. Or maybe there was something deeper...

My intuition sang to me. I had to get her out. Unfortunately, I didn't know if I could trust myself anymore.

I drove by the bar every day, slowly, in my unmarked car. I never saw her.

I considered calling Emmett and asking him to meet me somewhere. I had even gone so far as to look up the number for the bar, and was ready to call, when my phone rang. It had been eight days since I met Isabella.

"Whitlock."

" _Whitlock, Eli. I have more information about your Isabella Swan."_

I tensed. Whatever Eli had, it wouldn't be good. Eli was about balance. I still owed him from last time. For him to reach out voluntarily...

"Go on."

" _I did some digging after we spoke. One of my guys called me Monday to say that she hadn't been seen in two days."_

My breath caught in my throat. Two days. Monday.

"Has she been seen since?"

" _I just talked to him again. She's still MIA. And..."_

"And what?"

He hesitated again.

"Eli."

" _And there's word out that someone flipped and has been... removed. Someone having to do with Marcus. They don't know if it was one of his crew or..."_

 _Or if it was Isabella_.

_Fuck._

It was Friday now. If she'd been gone since Saturday... I grew lightheaded as comprehension dawned that we had probably already lost her.

I realized Eli was speaking again.

"...  _hear anything else."_

"Great. Thanks, Eli."

I hung up and tried to think through the headache that was suddenly a vise, crushing my skull.

First things first. I paced while the phone rang.

" _Sweeney's."_

"I'm looking for Emmett."

" _Speaking."_

"Emmett, it's Jasper. We met at the bar last week..."

" _I remember."_ His voice picked up a hard edge, and there was sudden quiet in the background of the call.

"Have you seen her? When was the last time you saw her?"

" _She..."_

"I can help, man."

" _Yeah. She said you could."_  I was startled. If she thought that, why hadn't she called?  _"She worked Saturday night, left after closing, just after five. She was supposed to be back for a shift at two, but she never showed."_

"She left alone?"

" _Yes."_

"Anyone walk her to her car or make sure she got home safely?"

" _No. We usually have one of the guys follow the girls out and they usually let us know... But my girlfriend was sick, and Bella said not to worry..."_  The guilt in his voice thrummed my own. It was rising to a fever pitch inside me, threatening to take over.

_Bella._

"No answer on her cell?"

" _None. I even stopped by her house, and her truck was there but she didn't answer."_

"Give me her address. We'll check it out."

He rattled it off, quietly and quickly, maybe afraid that someone would hear him.

" _Will you call if you find anything? Even if..."_

"Yeah, I will if I can."

We traded cell numbers before disconnecting. I called Peter as I jogged to my car. It was his day off, too, but I knew he wouldn't want me to go in alone.

I picked him up and forty minutes later, we were pulling into a rundown neighborhood.

"There." He pointed to a small cream-colored ranch-style house five doors down. I drove by it slowly and then pulled over two blocks away, not wanting to draw unnecessary attention to her house.

We'd both dressed in sweats so we would appear to belong in the neighborhood if anyone were watching. We took off toward her house at a reasonable gait, scanning for anything that looked out of place.

We reached her house quickly and, with an understanding that only comes after years of working with someone, both broke left to run up her driveway and into her tiny backyard.

Peter made quick work of the flimsy lock on her back door. If anyone had wanted in, it wouldn't have taken much.

A quick search of her house turned up no Isabella. We looked over her bedroom with trained eyes and determined that she hadn't packed a bag.

Open bills sat on her kitchen table, dated days ago. Overripe bananas on the counter were attracting fruit flies. There was no sign of forced entry, no sign that anyone other than she had been in her home recently.

If she'd run, it had been spontaneous.

If she'd been taken, there hadn't been a struggle.

Peter's breath hitched when we came across another framed photo of Charlotte and Isabella. It was different from the one in my pocket. He picked it up, and we stared at it for a long moment. They both looked so happy. Carefree. Innocent.

He set it down too hard and knocked over two other framed photos that were nearby.

"There's nothing here. Let's go."

We walked back through the kitchen and I stopped at the table. On the third bill in the stack, an electric bill due yesterday, I jotted a note.

_Please call just to let me know you're okay. – JW_

Hopefully, if— _when_ —she came home, she'd understand. If anyone else came through behind us, they were unlikely to be interested in how much she owed for utilities.

We spent the rest of the day going through our contacts, searching for any hint that she might be out there somewhere. I could help her, but I had to find her first.

I gave up at two a.m. Peter had long since departed, leaving a kitchen table covered with Chinese food boxes and legal pads.

We'd reexamined Charlotte's thick file and the meager one we had on Marcus Volturi. We'd found mention of the possibility of a third house out in Montauk. We were going to drive out tomorrow afternoon. At this point, I would have driven to Florida if it meant we would be closer to finding her.

I cleaned up our mess from dinner and tied off the trash bag to take it out back.

It was unseasonably cool for a summer night, although the air still held a hint of the humidity that had gripped the city that day.

I dropped the bag in the metal trashcan by the backdoor and was just replacing the lid when I heard a noise to my left. I reflexively tightened my grip on the handle of the lid. My gun was inside but anything could be a weapon under the right circumstances.

I stood still, waiting for the noise to reoccur.

I had just given up when I heard it again.

I waited, not ready to search for the source yet. It was probably just the asshole cat who lived two houses over.

When I heard my name float out of the darkness a moment later, I almost passed out.

I reached inside my backdoor and quickly threw the lights on. The backyard was flooded with light, and I could see, standing next to my garage, Isabella Swan.

She looked terrible. She was wearing a dark hoodie and jeans with simple sneakers. I could see smudges on her cheek and tears in her sleeves and along the bottoms of her jeans. She looked like maybe she hadn't slept since I had last seen her.

I stepped toward her wordlessly and prayed to whatever god was still willing to listen to me that she wouldn't flee. I held out my arms, and before I knew it, she had thrown herself at me. I scooped her up and held her to my chest. Her breath was coming in ragged gulps, and I held her as tightly as I could, as if that would calm her down.

"Help me." Her voice was barely a whisper in my ear, and I crushed her to me even more securely.

"I will, Isabella, I will."

And I would. I would do it right this time. I would keep Isabella safe. I would do it at any cost.

She gripped me forcefully and I could feel in her arms a trust that I didn't yet deserve.

But I would earn it. I would deserve it.

She was my reward.

She was my punishment.

She was my retribution.


End file.
